Emotional Bandaid
by cleverdistraction
Summary: Woody has a sudden realization about Jordan one night. Woody POV, WJ. T for one minor bad word! :


Emotional Bandaid

Author: pyroangel32

Disclaimers: I don't own, this is just fun

A/N: This is my first fic for Crossing Jordan..I went into a funk for awhile where I didn't write anything, so here is my latest fic…I hope you all like it. / Please R&R, because reviews make me want to write more, and they make me feel good! ;) I really hope you enjoy this fic!...P.S. This came to me after looking up screencaps and watching Sunset Division…so blame that.  MINOR Spoilers for Sunset Division (even though I can't remember the guy's name), JPF, Don't Look Back, and You Really Got Me.

Emotional Bandaid

In watching Jordan for as long as I have, there are few things that I do not understand about her. There are few things I do not know about her. There are few things that I have yet to learn. And Jordan doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve for anyone.

At least that's what I thought--until we...went our separate ways.

Now, armed with a little more insight, a little more knowledge, and little less stick up my ass, I've come to open the book that I slammed shut. But I know better than anyone that this is not your typical story.

---

There have been only a handful of times I have attempted to kiss one Jordan Cavanaugh. And I've failed more times that I've succeeded. For the longest time, I was under the impression that this was normal--that Jordan did not kiss just anyone. That was before the "incident," Danny McCoy, and Pollack--skip the first name on him, he's not worth it. Danny McCoy I could deal with--after all, I wasn't exactly moping around my hotel room in Vegas. Pollack is a different story. Pollack came to my town and stole my girl.

Right after I told him he could have her.

But that was before we'd gotten back on track. Before we started being...whatever we used to be. It is at this point in the story that I must say that I lay awake at nights wondering whether I should have my head examined for letting him go after her. Really, though, after all the running around I did for her, how was I supposed to know she'd fall into his arms? Like I said, this was before a lot---and especially before I figured out the one constant in the personality--in the heart--of Jordan.

Unlike any other realization I've ever had, this one came about when I refused to think about the problem any longer. Which is to say that consciously, I was determined to not think about her and her parade of men any longer, but my subconscious decided to take a vacation. I can honestly say this because it came to me in a dream--the inherent home of the subconscious. In my humble opinion, at least.

So, there I was, in bed, sleeping off another day of homicide as presented by Dr. Cavanaugh. There are no ordinary homicides--especially with Jordan as the answering ME. Though directly after I returned to duty, things had been rocky between us--and for quite I while, I felt the sensation of burning guilt in stiffling her passion. But as I soon found out, Jordan's passion burned bright--just not with me.

This case had not been ordinary--the deceased lived a double life on both ends of the spectrum--none of which I found out on my own. Yes, that's right, the infallible Jordan strikes again. This case, with all its oddities, made me miss her more than I thought possible. More than I already did.

I went to sleep that night with an aching repressed deep inside of me, telling myself over and over that I gave up my right to think of her when I told her to leave. I thought of her anyway.

The dream was simple, with the feel of an old home movie--including the unfocused, uneasy lines running from frame to frame. First, scenes from our past--kissing Jordan in the desert, almost kissing Jordan in Los Angeles, hearing her pained "I love you," watching as she walked away--just as broken and bleeding as myself. Every catalouged memory between us had filtered its way out on a timeline of sorts. An almost-relationshop timeline. But as soon as I knew the timeline had stopped, a new one began. This, unlike the previous, proved to be a large over-exaggeration of my own memory.

This time, Jordan left my hospital room and one by one, the men in her life followed her, giving me looks of "how could you let this go?" And, there, outside my room, she kissed them--old boyfriends, Danny, Pollack, and even some of the doctors that I had seen leering at her in the brief time she had guarded my bedside. Yes, real and exaggerated, they were with her and I was not.

At this point, Jordan stopped, looked me in the eye, and slammed the door shut. The door slammed and the dream ended--the dream ended and reality intruded.

Another nearly sleepless night.

However, it was in this early dawn that I figured her out; so, in this case, I did not mind the lack of sleep all that much. I thought through my dream, through all the men and slamming doors. I arrived at one conclusion about her and it had to do with the men she kissed, or, rather, those she did not.

---

For the amount of times I haven't quite succeeded in kissing Jordan, Pollack has kissed her twice as much. To say the memory of watching Pollack kiss her kills me a little more with each rememberance, is an understatement. Why can she openly kiss him, but not me? Why could she sleep with him, but not with me? Was there something so terribly wrong with me--before the shooting--that made me...resistable?

My mind asked the same questions, over and over, with every man--every old flame I'd ever seen or heard. Just as I got to the point that I was feeling physically ill, I remembered the one man who had taught me a lesson that I had not fully learned. It had been one of Jordan's exes that I met a few years ago in Los Angeles. The "fat man."

At the time, I had thought nothing of his words--his accusation that Jordan used him for sex and left--cut and run. I never believed him until the dream. The Jordan I knew wouldn't use a man--she wouldn't even kiss them without the right circumstances. Little did I know that Jordan just wouldn't use me.

Now I see it. When Jordan and I were almost together, I took things slowly--for two reasons. The less significant reason was that I didn't want Jordan to run from Boston (and me) like she had run from every other city (and ever other man). The more significant reason was that I had simply never known any other woman like Jordan. Granted, it seems less significant, but knowing how to talk, how to approach, how to act around Jordan was like nothing I had ever experienced--and I didn't know if I could hack it. So I took it slowly, hoping to never miss a step because maybe then she would be mine. Last year, if I had been asked whether it was working, I would have said no. But looking back now, I know it worked--it was the follow through that left something to be desired.

It worked simply because she never slept with me, as contrary as it may seem. She never used me. Jordan seldom used anyone--and I've come to realize that there is always a cause to this effect. Jordan uses sex like the wounded use medication. It is a temporary solvent--a tool that she uses to rid herself of pain. A bandaid of sorts for her broken heart. A heart that I helped to break--effectively throwing her into the arms of other men. Other men that I had no point in hating, but did so regardless.

I broke her, and sleeping with Pollack was her redemption--her healing. Not to make me jealous--though it did just that. Not because she loved him more than she loved me--though it is hard to watch her with him. And not because she wanted to use him--simply because this was the way Jordan dealt with life. Through the years, it had gotten significantly easier for her to take part in this charade than it had first been, at least it was easier before I came along--yes, I've heard my share of rumors and innuendo. And now I'm afraid that she's reverted back to old behavior--only set into a new mindframe.

So, what do I do now?

I rip the bandaid off.

---

It all happened a week later in her office. We had finished another case--nothing particularly grueling, but unusual nonetheless. Jordan and I had been together all day for three days straight. The familiarity of our relationship had been resussitated long before, but the past three days had felt more right than I had hoped. True to our relationship, there weren't discussions or verbalized emotions--just the simplicity of knowing that the other was within an arm's length.

We sat in her office, putting together the last remnants of paperwork before I filed my report. We had sifted through reports and warrants for an hour and a half, and were just finishing when I had dropped the autopsy file. Always of like minds, Jordan and I went down to retrieve the paper. It was there, sitting huddled in the space between her desk and the office door, that I caught my opening. The hair had fallen into her eyes just before she looked at me, concealed longing etched into the creases of her forehead. Concealed to everyone but me; I can see through her attempts to disguise her feelings--I know her secret; I know her better than she knows herself.

I love her more than she loves herself.

I leaned up and kissed her then, taking her face into my hands gently. It was short and simple, while soft and sweet in its passion. When I pulled away, bringing my hands slowly back to my sides, the look in her eyes proved that she was willing herself to wrap that bandaid tighter around herself--to recede into her pain and longing so as to shield herself further from the attack she was positive that was coming. I picked myself up slightly, kissed her on the forehead reassuringly, and left with the first genuine smile I've had in weeks--if not longer.

A few feet down the hall, I stopped and looked back at the woman I had just left sitting on the floor. She looked so small and quiet, like her restored world had just fallen down on top of her. In a daze, she reached her long, delicate fingers up to her slightly parted lips--as though to reassure herself that what just happened was indeed reality.

I crept back into her office doorway and leaned against the frame before sliding down to crouch before her. She looked up at me once more, this time with tears shining in her eyes and an unsure look playing across her face--unmasked, uncomplicated.

I brushed my thumb and forefinger down her cheek and titled her head upward toward mine. I brushed my lips across hers, and whispered, "I know ... and I'm not leaving..."

There are two things I should have remembered about ripping off bandaids:

It leaves the wound raw and open for the world to see, and

you must have a better replacement.

Yes, this is much better.


End file.
